One Last Whirl
by trace93
Summary: Tim recalls the complex associations that come with his clothes. Takes place before 4.13.


**Spoiler: Occurs just before FNL 4.13**

**AN: These characters are not mine.**

I'm standing there stark naked doing my laundry, making sure everything I own is clean before I go down to the sherriff's. So I stripped off what was on my back, and put in a few other things that needed washing.

It may be a long time before I see this stuff again.

I pulled a white tube sock out of the dryer.

I thought of that morning after Lyla had spent the night. That was the end of our "honeymoon," so to speak, after the heat from initially hooking-up was just cooling off, and reality was beginning to set in, at least for Garrity.

Daily (and nightly) mind-blowing sex clearly wasn't going to be enough to satisfy her.

I was about to pull on my socks, which I always put on before my shirt. I'd just asked Lyla how her school project was coming along, and she practically bit off my head, asking me what did I care about her studies.

She'd stormed out in a huff, which I didn't understand. I slammed my hand against the exercise machine next to my bed.

Fuck. I just don't get girls sometimes.

Next I folded several pairs of black briefs. It's just somethin' Billy did, and since he raised me, I started doing it too. (Only Billy likes those teeny bikinis, which are just too much for me.)

On top of that, they could always double as swimming trunks. You never know.

And I could take off my pants and look presentable, as I did after that horrible lunch with the McCoys and Garritys. Tyra was there in my living room, but it wasn't anything she hadn't seen before. 'Sides, I was broiling in those polyester pants.

Though I hadn't expected Garrity to come by bearing delicious gifts (my favorite burger from Ribs 'n' Stuff), I was happy she did, because we'd left in a way that felt like a breakup.

And as demanding as Lyla was, I wasn't ready to give up on her just yet.

I pulled a Crucifictorious t-shirt out next. The plastic iron-on decal burned my hand as it was still hot.

Ah, Crucifictorious. Landry's band was actually pretty successful now that he'd changed its focus from Christian metal toward bass-driven indie.

I had supported the band when I could, ever since Landry'd saved my ass by tutoring me on Mrs. Taylor's request.

I folded it, careful to make sure the logo that Landry had labored over showed clearly. It might be a long time before these things get unpacked, so I want to make sure whoever opens the box sees it.

The copper rivets on my jeans were still burning hot. I draped the jeans on the washing maching to cool, noting how many more holes there were than the last time I washed 'em.

I try not to wash 'em more than once a month, which sounds pretty disgusting, but I don't want 'em to wear out. I love those jeans—the slim fit, the boot leg flare, the pocket stitching, the way the denim is lighter weight.

Well I won't be needing 'em where I'm going, maybe. But I'll wear 'em going in, and coming out.

One of my favorite plaid shirts. Believe it or not, this is the one that Laribee player pissed on in my locker, that time we had to share a locker room after the tornado.

I wasn't gonna throw out my favorite shirt just cause of that. It washed out fine.

One problem, the 3rd snap from the top is broken, so when I wear it, it's open a little lower than some people consider decent.

Oh well, it's not like I'm a girl or anything. Nothing to see, it's just my chest.

My corduroy jeans jacket with the fleece lining… why do I think of Jay when I see this jacket?

I guess because my strongest memories of it were when I wore it on adventures with Street… like when we'd spent the night outside… drinking Jack and PBR on the field with 20 and 7 in a brokeback moment.

And in New York, where it was fall and beautiful with the leaves turning orange, before I had to leave my best friend with his new family. Still hurts my heart to think about, but the important thing is, he's happy.

Six is gonna be so disappointed in me. I'll tell him eventually that it was really Billy's idea, but then he'll be mad that I took the fall. And he'll be right.

Ah, my treasured white 33 tee with the fading blue imprint that says 33: no one else.

It's so old and worn and soft. It's starting to gets holes around the neckline, crap.

33.

I used to inhabit that number. I _was_ 33.

I love the shape of the number, all big loops like a woman's curves.

The symmetry of it. The way it looks so balanced on my uniform.

That feeling of being all powerful, of being able to do whatever I wanted.

I wore 33 in Pop Warner, so between that and the Panthers, I have literally dozens of t-shirts with 33 on it.

I'm not sure I'm 33 anymore.

When I put it on to hack around or work on my truck, I don't get that proud feeling I used to get.

I fear I need to leave them alone, or turn them inside out, because I don't want to be that pathetic guy who relies on his glorious memories of high school ball to keep him going.

Who'm I fooling. I am already that guy.

Worse.

In the eyes of the law and the town, I've finally lived down to the reputation of being Tim Riggins, loser, quitter, felon.

Everyone says you get a second chance, and mine comes in about 18 months.

Now where the hell's that other sock…


End file.
